This collection provides a glimpse of the beauty, of the serene landscape of Lemuria.

From Emile Ralambo's Paintings on Exhibit at the Virtual Museum

Ralambo has painted village women fishing in shallow water with basketry nets. Small fish and crawfish abound in small stands of water and especially in flooded rice fields during the agricultural off-season. These fish have traditionally served as a supplement to the diet, making tasty sauces for rice. The rolling hills in the background are a distinguishing feature of highland Madagascar.
Collection: Norwegian Missionary Society

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The Lemurian Collection of Fran Sbrocchi

All day long the door to the sub-conscious remains just ajar; we slip through to the other side and return again, as easily and secretly as a cat....
Walter De La Mare, Behold, this Dreamer! 1939

Empty Draws

Empty by accident, this small square disk waits
waits for my awakened thought
but sleep prevails
I nod and shut my mind
to all voices
Where do I seek the lucid flame
the voice is quiet
Perhaps I must go back
go back beyond
this age this place
this comfortable spot
and find a path
more rugged
and learn to strive
against the verity
that makes the broad plateau
so easy and thus

Fishing Baskets of Lemuria

To sit and dream
beside the lake
and wait
for it will soon be spring
and I may see the poplars on
the hill
burst their green blossoms
in a mist
a shower
a puff of dragon
breath against the pines
and winter

I too walked by the river
the palms gave shade
We watched and counted gulls following the fishing boats
The village women will have baskets
and boast of their men
who bring food from the sea.

have come again
and found the place
we knew empty

I thought of you
and of the day we sat together here
and whispered

The water answered and entered
the leaves twisted and sparkled
in the autumn wind

We knew that we, no longer young
would not come again
yet river, and water, sand and the whispering wind
would remain

I come alone
to the river

Her Climbing

She walked slowly
bare toes curling into soft earth
a yellow dandelion in each hand

She touched the dandelion to her nose and made
her nose all yellow put out a small tongue
and tasted the shining dewdrop on the other one

She climbed the hill beside her house
and saw the long wire fences
the telephone poles
and far across the dark fields
the water tower

Later, later when she had learned
to count, and tell direction she could count
and name, the places marked by tall
red elevators. From her hillside she could see
five villages and the distant town
one day she knew she would climb higher

High enough she thought to see
to the far edges of her green and gold
homeland...One day she’d find a way
to walk to the place where the two bright rails
joined and tipped over the farthest edge
One day, she knew, she’d be old enough
to ride by herself across the prairie

And so she did, as she grew tall
go to the distant city, where from
the rooftop she could see the mountains
One day, she did, and swung in a gondola
high above the city, high above the land
where fields of yellow wheat, pale green poplar
and lavender flax flowers bloomed, where the grey
road bent through the valley, and the fences
disappeared over the horizon

At the far edge, the farthest edge
the mountain broke the long curve
she must climb higher, so she did
and found, another mountain
on the other side, and another, until
she grew bolder, flew , farther and farther
westward, ever westward, through the long
day, and through nights, nights of her learning
days of restless wonder, through years until at last, she rested, rested on the farthest edge

Today I walked in a different land
far from my childhood
yet my love
held my hand
and helped me over the rough places
The tiny boats sailed
gently into the wind
and summer heat
lay just outside the shade we found.
We watched the bustling families
babes, adolescents and aged grandparents
sharing a Christmas feast.
One family had a "balloon tree"
and all seemed content.
How I wish I could send the peace
we found
to everyone.

It seemed so necessary to capture
all the stories before those old ones
were forgotten but now that we
are old ourselves I keep wondering
if it is better just to drift down
to the sea where water remembers
nothing and we become part
of the everchanging pattern
without shape or desire to change

We are and have always been
drifting drifting and circling
changing with the entry of newer
ripples and as the circles
intertwine they change direction
but are they yours or mine
are they without place or time
only direction and the current


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